


Under the Open Sky

by Bliss_Smith



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Multi, Walking and talking, a day in the life, marching through Ferelden, obligatory mushy bits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-16 20:09:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15444879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bliss_Smith/pseuds/Bliss_Smith
Summary: No specific time frame other than post-Redcliffe and Orzammar/everyone recruited. Any ordinary day as they travel Ferelden.Dealing with leading, with making a functional group out of diverse personalities, cranky witches, and falling (more) in love





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All credit for "The Soldier and the Seawolf" to Bioware/whomever wrote it. The most information I've been able to find is it's in The World Of Thedas, Volume 2. Anyone who can give me a better citation, please do.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oghren and the Warden realize they have more in common than being the shortest ones in the group.

It’s always weird – that moment she realizes she’s in charge of the people traveling with her. It’s not scary, which is something, but it always makes her tense in a way she can’t put her finger on. 

 

Today’s moment comes when she realizes Oghren is in a bad way. Of all her companions he’s the one she worries about most. It isn’t the drinking, surprisingly enough; it’s the black depression that not drinking pushes him into. He still struggles to adjust to life on the surface, and she’s never completely sure he will make it. 

 

Especially not when he’s looking like an ugly thunderstorm waiting to let loose. She casts about for something to pull him out, hiding her smile as she takes a long drink from her water skin. 

 

Her belch is loud enough to make her blush but it’s still a mere squeak. It does the trick, though. Oghren laughs, and the clouds are pushed back for now.  

 

“Give it up. You’re too much of a princess to burp right.” 

 

She wants to argue the point about being a princess, but she’s wearing leather leggings and a long, billowy shirt with a lot of ribbons—almost as many as in her hair—along with the wildflowers she’s been picking as they walk. She knows what she looks like. 

 

Of course she does. She dressed this way on purpose, so she looks cute and Alistair will keep smiling when he looks at her. She didn’t plan on catching his attention with burps, but he beams at her anyway. 

 

She takes another long drink and tries again, managing to rip one out that’s loud enough to echo. Oghren laughs so hard he wheezes. “I’d be mad about you for proving me wrong, but your face is too funny.” 

 

Everyone’s laughing, at her and with her. She’s bright red and ready to crawl in a hole but she's proud, too, that she found a way to make one of her companions feel better. 

 

“So that’s why you were named after a strong wind.” Leliana teases. 

 

“Is that what your name means?” Alistair asks.  He sounds curious enough, but she thinks he’s also trying to help her over her embarrassment. Maker’s breath, how did she get so lucky to find him? 

 

She pulls her head from the clouds before they can start sapping all over each other. “Well, yes, but it was also the name of my mother’s ship, and I was named after that.”  

 

“Your mother had a ship?” Morrigan seems surprised out of her perpetual scowl. She’s either amused or upset—it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes—but Mistral is sure she won’t figure out why. Not easily at least. 

 

“My mother was Eleanor Mac Eanraig, an infamous Storm Coast raider known as the Seawolf. She took down her first Orlesian ship at 15.” She says it proudly, and cheerfully enough, but it doesn’t stop the small knife in her chest. She can’t yet talk about them without pain. Which is probably a good thing, considering, but she’s still tired of everything hurting. 

 

That makes Morrigan look angry, almost. Before she can look too closely to figure out for sure, Wynne laughs and speaks up. 

 

“And that means  _The Soldier and the_ _Seawolf_  was written for your parents. I’m surprised I never put that together. Your name should have been the clue.” 

 

“What is that, a romantic tale?” Leliana sounds like she’s one breath away from  _tell me tell me._  

 

“Even better. Their first meeting was so bad her crew made an equally infamous shanty about it.” She grins wide and holds up her hands to Leliana, who’s all but bouncing on her little bard toes in excitement. “Give me a moment and I’ll sing it for you.” 

 

She takes a few deep breaths and looks to Alistair, needing to see the encouragement she knows will be on his face. He’s smiling and happy, sending such sweet waves of affection her way she’s able to put aside some of the pain this is causing her. 

 

 _The lion’s ships were Denerim bound_  
_Oh, drop him, Lady, drop him!_  
_Let the true king’s call for aid resound_  
_Just drop him, Lady, drop him!_  
_A soldier lad from the army came_  
_Oh, drop him, Lady, drop him!_  
_Leading thirty souls in Maric’s name._  
_Just drop him, Lady, drop him!_  
  
_Turn him loose and let him go_  
_Down to the rocks and the waves below_  
_The depths can have that scurvy knave_  
_Just drop him, Lady, drop him!_  
  
_When the soldier met the Mistral’s crew_  
_Not a word of their great deeds he knew_  
_And the Seawolf he took for a servant lass_  
_Great Andraste, what an ass!_  
  
_‘Fore the Seawolf’s ire, no man could stand_  
_Soldier felt his death was close at hand_  
_Two great steps back did he retreat_  
_And the cliff side crumbled 'neath his feet._

 

She’s smiling wide as she finishes, remembering all the times she heard one of them singing  _just drop him, Lady, drop him._  Always followed by a laugh and a kiss, or her father scooping up her mother and running from the room with her as she laughed and scolded him _—Bryce, what are you doing, put me down!_   

 

Her heart breaks more as the memories come, as the missing comes. She knows if she can’t find a diversion she’s going to start crying, wrecking all her work at getting everyone else to smile and be happy. 

 

Everyone except Alistair and Morrigan. She knows the sadness in Alistair’s eyes is from the pain in her own, and that’s okay, but the anger in Morrigan’s leaves her baffled. They’ve actually been getting along, finally, after so much sniping and arguing. Why is this making her mad enough to shoot daggers? 

 

Leliana laughs and claps, giving her something to focus on. “You have to sing it again, so I can remember it.” 

 

“How about tonight, after dinner? We’ll break out a few bottles and make a party of it.” 

 

 

 

The day goes on, smooth enough that she’s almost forgotten what prompted the song. She remembers when Oghren makes his way back to her, and they’re both holding drag behind Bodahn’s wagon. 

 

“Why do you even care? It’s not like being happy makes me a better fighter. Isn’t that why you brought me along?” 

 

She thinks about playing dumb but can’t bring herself to insult either of them like that. “What makes you so sure I was trying to make you happy?” 

 

“Why else would you purposely embarrass yourself in front of your boyfriend?” 

 

She tries to not blush and fails miserably, blushing harder for trying. There are so many ways to answer she can only grab the most honest one and start from there. 

 

“I know what it’s like. Losing your family in one fell blow. Losing everything. Finding yourself alone in a world different from the only one you’ve ever known, with only the barest idea how to survive. It’s terrible and feels like there’s nothing safe in the world. That the ground may as well tilt and drop you off the edge.” 

 

“You keep this up I’m going to start drinking before we ever set camp.” He sounds angry and dismissive, but she can see something else under his red face. 

 

“You can drink all you want. If it’s the only thing that helps you get through, then fuck what anyone else has to say about it, even me.” 

 

“Well now I’ve heard everything. Princesses like you shouldn’t even know that word, let alone say it.” 

 

“My mother is probably rolling over in her grave.” That’s out before she’s aware of what she’s saying.  

 

It’s the idea that her mother probably isn’t in a grave that gets her, that her proud, fearless mother was likely tossed over the wall and left for the wolves to eat, or something equally insulting. Her father, too. She thinks she’s going to start crying but rage overtakes her instead, that she let herself be led away from her home, that she left her parents to such an ignoble man. 

 

But the anger doesn’t last, tamped out by the miserable sorrow of her final memory of them. She understands better now, why her mother chose to stay. It wasn’t just to buy her daughter more time—that was merely a concurrent reason. She stayed because her children were grown and her only place was at her beloved’s side. 

 

“The other day you asked about being a berserker. That rage you just swallowed, that’s what you need for it. But that means you gotta feel the hurt, too, if that’s what fuels it. You’re too young and sweet to let that kind of pain and anger poison you, Princess. It gets in your head until the booze is the only thing that shuts it up.” 

 

She wants to reach out to him, squeeze his shoulder or even hug him. She knows that’s her way of saying thank you. He needs to hear a way he can understand better. 

 

“Every day you wake up and keep going is a testimony to your courage. It’s an honor to have you with us, Oghren. I hope you know that.” 

 

“No it isn’t. But maybe it will be by the time this is all over.” 


	2. Under the Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evening camp. Morrigan and the Warden on the way to becoming sisters, but being drunk just makes them irritate each other more.

They do make a party out of it. Once dinner is finished and everything is cleaned and packed for the night, they pool their bottles, and Wynne mixes it all with a few ingredients to make a smashing punch. 

 

They all sit around the fire; even Sten breaks his customary solitude to share Wynne’s punch and listen to the music. Leliana plays her lute and Alistair surprises everyone by turning a piece of his armor into a percussive instrument to accompany her. Mistral and Zevran take turns singing, sharing the songs they grew up with.   
 

And Morrigan sits just outside the warmth, getting drunk and shooting daggers at her. 

 

She tries to blow it off, let it roll off into the night, find its own hole to lie down and die in. Everyone else is having a very good time—a much needed good time. The only thing stopping Morrigan from joining is herself. 

 

But she hates it, and for whatever reason can’t find a way to let it go. When Morrigan takes a short walk into the woods, she finds herself getting up to follow. 

 

 

She walks just far enough behind to give Morrigan a bit of privacy. She makes no effort to walk quietly, knowing she won’t be able to get past her sharp hearing. It doesn’t take long before she sees Morrigan’s shoulders drop. She doesn’t need to see her face to know an exasperated eye roll goes along with the deep sigh. 

 

“You are as annoying as your hound. What do you want?” 

 

Wynne’s punch has quite a few answers for that, but she manages to hold them in. “I want to know what I’ve done this time to make you so damned angry. You’ve been shooting arrows at me all day.” 

 

“Unlike you, I do not wish to share every feeling I have. Leave me with my thoughts; they are of no concern to you.” 

 

“Fuck you, Morrigan, and yes they are.” That’s out before she can stop herself, but at least it gets her to turn around. “If it affects the morale of this, whatever it is, I don’t even know at this point, it is my concern. If it’s going to jeopardize my safety, it most definitely is.” Exasperation and impatience—and the punch—get the better of her. “Maker’s breath, are you really mad about my mother?” 

 

The way Morrigan draws back tells her she's right. She really is mad about her mother. How can that even make sense? 

 

Morrigan’s slight wobble tells her she’s not the only one feeling the punch, and she wonders if picking a fight with a drunk witch is a good idea, but it’s too late for that. They’re going to have this out. 

 

“What the fuck! Are you just making up shit to be mad about now?” 

 

Morrigan’s eyebrows go up more, and she steps forward, closing some of the distance between them. “Such dirty words out of such a pretty mouth. You’d better watch out; someone might figure out you are not so sweet and pure.” 

 

“Look, I am entirely too drunk for this conversation. Just tell me, okay? What has my mother ever done to you to make you such a cranky bitch?” 

 

“You have everything but at least I could tell myself I do not have some boring and miserable noble for a mother. But you don’t either—precious Mistral has a mother other women tell their daughters about to give them something to aspire to while I have a mother women tell their daughters about to scare them to death.” 

 

“Well if it’s any consolation she’s dead. Her precious daughter let herself be forced into leaving her behind to be murdered.” 

 

They both draw back this time, blinking and surprised at the outbursts. She waits for the tears, but they don’t come. She’s not sure if that’s progress or numbness. 

 

“What a little hypocrite you are. All the times I’ve had to listen to you console Alistair and you still harbor that same ridiculous Andrastian notion, that you are somehow worth less for not sacrificing yourself.” 

 

“Then I guess we finally have something in common. You’re just as much of one for letting who I am define and diminish you.” 

 

“Says the woman who turns even drunken dwarves and disgraced qunari into puppies at her feet.” 

 

“To the woman who can probably turn them into actual puppies.” 

 

They’re at an impasse and she doesn’t know what to do.  _Follow your heart_  someone whispers in her head. She thinks it might just be the memory of her father. She won’t bet on it, but she will listen. 

 

“I guess there’s nothing left to do but say this. Do you have any idea how much I respect you, Morrigan?” 

 

She snorts in derision at that. “You respect me?” 

 

“I do. I might not like you most of the time—you seem to be on a mission to make sure I don’t—but yeah, I really do respect you. You’re so fearless and determined, I always feel like a scared little goose next to you. When I’m face to face with some horrible thing I can’t even cope with, I find myself asking, ‘What would Morrigan do? How would she handle this?’ And it works. It gives me a little bit of courage that maybe I can handle it like you.” 

 

She gives it a moment, but Morrigan says nothing. She shrugs and gives up. She did her best. At least the daggers are gone. She turns to go and makes it only a few steps before she hears Morrigan speak softly. 

 

“And I, you.” 

 

She thinks to turn back around, but before she can, she hears Morrigan turn and walk away. It’s tempting to go after her, but she’s smart enough to know she’s done all she can for the night. There’s a warm fire and a sweet Prince waiting for her. 


	3. Under the Stars, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lovey-dovey bits: Alistair and Mistral, turning another corner.

He knows how to soothe her but what’s even better is he never waits for her to ask. He knows she will—she’s not shy about asking for what she wants—but sometimes not having to ask makes it better. When she comes back from talking to Morrigan, he’s waiting by the fire, sitting on a camp stool with her hairbrush in hand.

 

He makes a motion with it, to the spot between his feet, and the gesture leaves her breathless. It’s half command, half simple offer and she doesn’t think she’ll ever tire of it. She sits down and lets him work on her hair as she works back into the flow of conversation. The party atmosphere is still going, helped along by another batch of punch.

 

It winds down soon enough; it’s been a long day’s travel in the sun and the strong drink sends everyone off to their tents while the moon is still climbing. She thinks they should turn in, too, but she can’t make herself move. She’s come to love these moments as much as when they’re naked and sweating, or simply lost in looking at each other. Quiet camp, the sound of the fire, and the gentle breeze leaves her happy in a way she would have never thought possible.

 

She lets herself relax against him, and now that everyone is tucked in for the night, she can let her neck press into his crotch, can slowly rub the back of her head against him. He brings his hands down to gently encircle her neck, to press her back against him. They aren’t trying to do anything else but enjoy how many ways their bodies fit together.

 

“Are you okay, love? It’s been a day for you.”

 

“Any day that can end with us sitting like this, I’ll count it as a win.” She nestles back and lets the silence gather as she finds her words. It’s been so equally good and stupid she doesn’t know where to start. “I can’t believe I didn’t cry once. I don’t know if that’s good or not, you know? Shouldn’t I still be falling apart – not just over their deaths but at how they died?”

 

“It’s not the same for everyone; you know that. And just because you didn’t cry doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. I could see how much it did. And I hate that it all started when I asked about your name.”

 

She turns her head to nuzzle into his thigh, letting the gesture tell him not to worry about it. “Morrigan called me a hypocrite for still feeling guilty for not staying. For letting myself be forc...led away.” She sighs at the slip, wondering when they’ll be able to talk about her growing dislike for the Wardens and how she was forced into it. Not tonight, she knows that.

 

“Morrigan is a bitch, and you need to stop listening to a thing she says.”

 

“She’s right, though. How many times have I encouraged you to not beat on yourself for surviving? I don’t even take my own advice.”

 

“Completely different situations, love. I keep whining over a military outcome I should have long been prepared for. You had your world destroyed out of the blue.”

 

“You know the first chance I get I’m going to kill him, right? Like, I don’t even care if it jeopardizes everything else. If I see him he’s a dead man.”

 

“I’ll have your back. Just as you’ll have mine when we go after Loghain.”

 

Restlessness falls on her at the thought of how much is lined up against them. It’s daunting and scary and she knows she could easily fall into a black hole of despair. She doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to waste this happy, lighthearted buzz. She stands up and holds out her hand.

 

“Walk with me?”

 

“Anywhere you want to go.”

 

 

For a time it’s enough, to hold his hand and walk in the moonlight. To just be alive with him, side by side.

 

“I know why she stayed.” She speaks quietly, like she’s not fully aware. Or maybe she’s just hoping his mind is elsewhere and he won’t hear her.

 

“She wouldn’t leave him.” He speaks as quietly but there’s no mistaking the certainty of it.

 

“They were so much in love, all the way to the end. They maybe disagreed sometimes, usually over me, but even when they argued you could feel the love.”

 

“Were you a difficult child?” He asks it with a laugh, already knowing the answer.

 

“What makes you think an arrogant and headstrong girl like me would be difficult to raise?” She can only shrug and laugh a little. “Everyone always said I was carved out of her butt cheek, so much like her it was spooky. Which meant she was always exasperated, and Father was wrapped around my finger from the start. He couldn’t say no to me.”

 

She stops and draws her hand from his, to rub them both over her face, try to rub out some of the tension she can feel building in her temples. “I feel like I should be at the place where I’m just grateful that I had them as long as I did. Out of all of us I’m the only one who had such a loving family.”

 

“You don’t have to hate yourself for being blessed.”

 

That make her snort laughter. “No, Morrigan does that well enough for all of us.”

 

“Remind me again why she’s still here?” Not matter how much humor he puts in the words there’s no mistaking the dislike behind them.

 

That’s their argument, which probably isn’t much different from how her parents argued over her. It’s the only thing they disagree on, at least now that he’s settled down about bringing Zevran with them. That he distrusts the unfriendly witch more than the assassin hired to kill them says a lot, but she won’t guess what, or about whom.

 

She tries to think of a way to answer but gets distracted by his mouth. By all of him, really, but it’s the thought of how his mouth feels on her skin that makes her stop and pull him to her.


	4. Under the Stars, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Mistral, mild/brief smut

“Right here, lay me down in the grass and push it all from my head. Let me drown in you.”

 

There’s something sparking in his eyes she hasn’t seen before, something dark and maybe a little hard. It may just be the moonlight and punch making her see things, but the idea that she isn’t makes her feel like she’s falling off a cliff.

 

“You better watch it, little Mistral. I’m just drunk enough to do that.”

 

She’s already reaching for his trousers, working her hand in with soft determination. “Then do it. Let me be your little bitch in the dirt.”

 

“Right here in the open? You’re sure about that? What if someone followed us out here?”

 

He’s hard as stone in her hand, and she wishes she knew magic, so she could save time and make their clothes disappear. “If they’re that desperate as to follow this far then let them watch. Fuck 'em.”

 

“I’d much rather fuck you.”

 

She lets out a noise that surprises them both, some kind of moaning squeal that sounds like an unfortunate farmyard accident. She can tell he’s trying not to laugh but so is she; the second she lets out a little snort he loses it and starts laughing.

 

By the time they catch their breath they’re on their backs in the grass, laughing up at the stars as they wipe their eyes and settle in side by side.

 

“So tell me, was that a good noise, or...”

 

“It was very good. Apparently, I like hearing you say that.”

 

He rolls over onto her suddenly, pinning her under him. He does look dark and wild—it’s not some trick of the moon. She bites her lip, knowing what’s coming.

 

“I want to fuck you.”

 

All she can manage is a breathless _oh Maker_ , a desperate little sound underscored by the way she arches up against him. She wants him so much she can’t even find a place to start.

 

He pushes one hand into her hair, holding her tight while the other works on opening her leggings. “I’m going to fuck you right here, where I can see the moonlight on your skin.”

 

She’s as drunk on him as everything else—the punch, the night air, the smell of wildflowers. They’ve been building up to this; whatever part is left of her thinking brain can pinpoint how they’ve been testing the waters for violence as a delight. She knows it’s inevitable and she’s willing to bet he does, too. It’s not from the violence that marks so many of their days; it’s the streak of it that is as much a part of them as their humor and kindness.

 

She’s seen it in both of them, when the fighting is heavy, and the smell of blood is as strong as the smell of their sweat, how they smile wider, how they plant their feet and turn fighting for their lives into a game, one they both know they’re skilled enough to win. They may doubt themselves in a host of ways, but never when it comes to their abilities as warriors.

 

Or their skills at making each other moan in pleasure. Her last coherent thought is wondering if that comes from the same place, the answer found in the feel of his teeth on her neck.

 

~*~

 

By the time they’re done they’re both bruised and bloody. She managed to split his lip and leave his back looking like he’s been mauled by a Mabari. Bite marks and bruises run the length of her neck and arms. They’re hoarse from screaming against each other’s skin and well on their way to multi-function hangovers. As they put on just enough clothing to not be naked, they’re shy in the way they always are after they turn a corner. After they bare a new part of themselves to each other.

 

“Did I hurt you?” he asks softly.

 

She grins and laughs, delighted and rueful and willing to go again. “Oh yes. And if you keep making me think about it I’m going to ask you to hurt me some more.”

 

He grins back and pulls her to him, to lean down and kiss and nuzzle her cheek. “Is there any way we aren’t a perfect match?”

 

Her tears are closer than they have been all day, threatening to burst through the dam because she loves him so much she can’t even believe it’s real sometimes. She wants to tell him that, tell him how her heart overflows for him but she can’t. They agreed, there’s nothing more than this simple love and companionship, no talk of anything else. They both seem to blow that rule with not-so-surprising regularity, but she must hold it in. The day has been too much. She pulls away from him just enough to move her head, to press her forehead against his chest.

 

“Tell me, love.” Plea and command, so soft and open.

 

“You’re my home, now. You’re my family,” she whispers against his skin. That much is okay, isn’t it? He probably knows it anyway.

 

He cradles her against his chest, as soft now as he was brutal twenty minutes ago. “I really like the sound of that.”

 

She nods against him, and he kisses the top of her head. He keeps an arm around her, tucking her against his side, as they walk back to camp. They fit so well, as if they’d been carved from the same block. She holds onto that thought and to the hope that whoever made them such a perfect match didn’t do it just to watch them be torn apart.

 


End file.
